


Serpent Round Your Heart

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brothers, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Trust, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trust once lost is not easily regained, both Sam and Dean feel the aftershock and the consequences. It's wrong through and through. Written pre-season six, set season five.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serpent Round Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the person who betaed this two and a half years ago. All mistakes that remain are mine.
> 
> I wrote this before I fell ill and went to hospital, and found it in an old email folder. Piece of history for me.

Sam's tears are wet against his face and Sam's breath is hot on his neck as he fists his hands in Dean's shirt. He’s mumbling, low sounds that Dean can’t quite catch, and he doesn’t want to because all it is is a litany of past sins and betrayals and they'd hurt enough the first time round. But Sam needs to say the words, even if Dean refuses to listen, and it’s easier for Sam to regress back to childhood and gasp out through tears into a Black Sabbath t-shirt everything that’s gone wrong. Dean is torn. Sam is hurting, and while part of him is numb because sorry doesn't fix things, doesn't glue the world back together and make it whole, the rest of him responds with a frightening ferocity of feeling because this is Sam, his brother, and Dean can't stand to see him hurt, can't stand to see him break and shatter. And it doesn't matter what Sam has done, because whatever it is, it can't be mended, he might not be able to put Sam back together again, a task that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not do, but that Dean Winchester will always try - will always kneel and scoop up the pieces and cradle them.

 

And Sam still reeks of whisky, and sweat, and tears, but the gasps are dying down, and the hands are relaxing in his shirt, and Sam is leaning against him and his breathing is still unsteady and his eyes are wild. Dean's back is propped against the wall as he sits on the bed, and then Sam is there clumsily mouthing kisses across his neck, and catching his jawline and Dean is filled with a kind of dull sick horror, because this is wrong. This isn't a shade of grey, this is black and white, and he doesn't want it, doesn't want this; Sam is his brother, and even the thought of that is enough to quell the slightest hint of desire. It's been too long he knows, perhaps for them both, but even so his hands are heavy and lifeless as he reaches to push Sam away, because Sam isn't hard either and what the fuck is he doing with his hand in Dean's lap and his mouth on Dean’s. He's had men but this is different. This is sick and twisted, and it's with a shock of horror that he hears Sam's words. They're broken and caught, and make something inside him wrench with a twisted pain. "Please trust me.. just trust me." He wants to lie, and tell Sam he trusts him fully, but he can't find either the heart for the lie or the force for the truth, and doesn't even know anymore which one that's what Sam needs. Just knows he needs something. Needs Dean again, needs what they had, and with a writhing horror in his belly Dean follows the thought to its logical conclusion through the haze of alcohol in his mind, and realises that Sam needs the strength to fight off Lucifer and the only place he can find it is Dean. The only person who can still hope for him, the only person who has and would kill and die for him. Sam's already proved he doesn't care about the world, but care for Dean? That he does, and will always do. The thud of inevitability sinks into him, and if he can't reassure Sam with his voice, then this will have to do.

 

He opens up to Sam, lets Sam kiss him, and then takes control and kisses him back, and Sam sinks like a stone to the bed as though this is what he needs, and still neither of them are hard. Even though Dean's eyes are closed he can still smell Sam, smell his aftershave, his laundry powder and the subtle note of his skin under the sweat and scotch, and he has no doubt that Sam can as well. Grimly, he tells himself that if he is going to do this, he's going to do it right, and kisses Sam properly, sucking gently at his bottom lip, sliding his tongue in again, kissing like he fucks: hard, deep, and slow. He can feel the first shivers of arousal, because this might be his brother, but it's still a kiss; still contact and closeness and warmth, and Sam is fully hard, and given how much he's drunk that's a miracle in itself.

 

He knows what Sammy wants, and tries his hardest, sinking into the kiss, bringing every memory he can up, and incredibly it doesn't take much until he's hard as well. Sam shivers bone-deep, and unzips his pants and pulls down his boxers, and without hesitation sucks Dean in. Dean knows without asking, in the way he knows so many things about Sam, that this is the first time Sam has done this. He can tell from the messy inexperience, the saliva and the choking, and it'd be hard to come from a blowjob this bad even if it wasn't being given by his brother. He wants more than anything to push Sam off, to wipe his mouth for him and stick him in his own bed, but it's too late now. This is Sam's decision, the consequence of him making his own choices, and because Dean loves him too much he'll let him. And then that Stanford-grade mind of Sam's kicks in and he pulls back and starts again as though obeying some biological instinct, and Dean hisses and folds his hand over his eyes, because if he can't see Sam, it won't feel so bad that it feels so good. Now he can't see or smell him, and the curious mouth licking the head of his cock, then swallowing it bit by bit could be anyone, could be Cassie, or Liz, or Aaron or any one of the nameless, faceless blowjobs he's had over the years. And Sam's mouth speeds up, and rational thought is slipping out of Dean's mind, and he can feel dimly that one hand is now in Sam's hair gripping it tight, though the other still covers his eyes. It feels good, far too good and he is losing control in a way he shouldn't, hips bucking towards Sam, slamming into him, and it doesn't help that Sam is going with it, stretching, accommodating. And every thought he's built up as a barrier is disappearing, his world is melting around him until all there is his body and Sam. He tells himself brutally that as long as he doesn't look he'll be fine, but even that thought is escaping and now his other hand is no longer over his eyes, but digging into sheets, and he has opened his eyes. His orgasm hits suddenly, like a tidal wave without warning.

 

He breathes deeply, knowing the glow won't last long, and sits up and tugs Sam towards him while he still has his nerve. He worms his hand inside Sam’s waistband and tugs down jeans and underwear enough to free his cock, which is still surprisingly hard. This is easier than the blowjob, easier because it's always come more naturally to Dean to give others pleasure, and in some ways it's like jerking himself off only the mirror opposite. Sam's face is against his and he's breathing out small moans as Dean fondles his cock and then launches into fast strokes up and down, until Sam is straining towards him, as though reaching for something impossible. Sam comes fast and hard and inarticulately, spattering his hand with come. It's the work of a moment to pad to the bathroom and wash it off. The work of a moment to avoid meeting his own eyes in the mirror lest the shame and the horror of it should cause him to start screaming. When he gets back Sam is almost asleep, and Dean doesn't undress him; just rolls him gently under the covers, and Sam's eyes flicker open and catch his own. The grief and sorrow in them is written in stone like it can never be erased, and so is the love and the need. Dean closes his eyes, and slowly presses his mouth to Sam's for a brief, brief moment. The words of trust still can't be spoken, but more truthful, more powerful words can.

 

"Whatever you've done, God help me, I still love you."

 

Then he's in his own bed, fully dressed with his cock still sticky and slightly damp, and the shame coils thick and slick first in his stomach, then like a serpent round his heart slowly constricting it, and his dreams are full of horror.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always appreciated,


End file.
